That's Me, Signore
by Laura Schiller
Summary: Enrico is NOT reforming...at least not admitting it out loud. Believe it or not: all the events in this story really happen in book 4. Spoilers alert.


That's Me, Signore

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Stravaganza

Enrico Poggi had honestly believed his number was up when Luciano and Cesare, both victims of kidnap at his hands, had grabbed him from behind and marched him off to Cesare's house. In their place, he would have slit his throat. They stripped him to his underwear and pushed him under the fountain. The water was outrageously cold; so cold it burned and stung every inch of him. He howled and cursed, all thoughts of maintaining dignity forgotten. It took a while for the fact to sink in that the young men meant to do him a favor.

It was the fresh clothes that did it. Why dress someone you're going to kill? Not to mention the loaf of bread, butter, olives, canned tomatoes, roast chicken and two mugs of ale.

Enrico's sole priority had always been his own survival and advancement. Every instinct told him to give his loyalty to Cavaliere Luciano – this boy who would feed an enemy and expect nothing in return. Well, he would have something; since Enrico had ruined his chances with the di Chimici, he was very much in need of a new master.

-(----

"Thanks, mate," said Matteo as Enrico handed him the leather-bound book. "You saved my life."

He held the book close as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Enrico, not quite knowing how to react, gave a jerky nod, wrapped his blue cloak around him and hurried away down the cobblestoned street.

It was the most peculiar feeling. When was the last time he had inspired such gratitude in a human being? Rewards of silver, yes. Revulsion, certainly. The employers of spies and assassins usually treated one like a dirty but necessary tool – Rinaldo di Chimici, for instance. But the open warmth in the young Stravagante's face was something new.

Giuliana had thanked him with smiles and kisses once upon a time, for escorting her home after a party, or for the street market flowers he'd bought her – white carnations tucked into her brown braids or pinned to her bodice. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Usually when somebody thanked him, it was for paying for his drink to coax information out of him, or some other covert activity. Not for saving a life. Not that he'd done anything very special – only stolen back the boy's talisman so he could stravagate home. Still, the spy who had been used to slouching through dark alleys walked a little straighter on his way home.

-(----

The cobblestoned streets and half-timbered houses of Padavia blurred as Enrico darted through the streets. A butcher whistled as he arranged a string of raw red sausages in his shop window; a sharp smell came from the open door of the apothecary. The conversation he'd just overheard made him want to retch.

_So once he's unconscious, we'll get him down to the Anatomy Theatre..._

_No, don't tell me! Oh, that _is _wicked. Never knew you had it in you!_

_Well, you know they say the Professor himself doesn't always know whose body it is._

_And to think no one can trace it back..._

They had laughed and clapped each other on the back, the two di Chimici cousins, savoring the gruesome efficiency of their plot to murder the Cavaliere.

Enrico _had_ to warn him. It was no longer a question of information and reward. Luciano was his master; he gave him food, silver for his lodgings and purpose to his life. But beyond that, they had fenced together, laughed together; Luciano had a certain elegance and distinction about him, and yet his air made everyone feel welcome, unlike the di Chimici, whose haughtiness signaled 'keep your distance'. Having him drugged to be carved up by an anatomy professor would be an act of evil. An atrocity.

It was something Enrico himself might have done, given enough money, two years ago.

Enrico reeled to a stop and leaned against the wall, gasping for breath. It was as if he had been ripped in two like a strip of cloth; one half was cackling madly at the irony of it. _Since when are you all holier-than-thou, Enrico? Who was it who set a bomb on his own fiancée, hey?_

The other half snapped back: _I thought it was the Duchessa, all right? How was I to know she'd used a double?_

_And would that have been any less of a murder?_

He shook his oily black hair like a dog and set off again, his heart pounding. Internal debate or no, he must get to the Cavaliere or his friends before the worst happened.

_You may not give a flying fig about Silvia yourself, but plenty of other people did...if she'd died, Senator Rodolfo would have been just as smashed up as you were when Giuliana disappeared._

_I know why I didn't listen to you all these years – you're a bloody nuisance. It was the di Chimici's order anyway. And I swear by the Holy Mother, Father and Son – I will _not _let them kill the Cavaliere!_

Enrico flashed the Hand of Fortune as he ran.

-(----

They arrived not a second too late. The short-sighted professor, never realizing that the body on the table was still breathing, had already poised his scalpel above Luciano's heart. Enrico and Matteo burst in and announced to the whole crowded theatre just what the di Chimici had tried to do; soon all of Padavia would know, and even for a cardinal and a prince's heir, surely there would be some sort of consequence.

They walked out supporting Luciano between them, his arms slung over their shoulders. He was a dead weight, heavy as lead, but his skin was still warm and his heart was beating. And when he lifted his head and rasped out Enrico's name, the spy was embarrassed at the depth of his own relief.

"That's me, signore," he said.


End file.
